I am an expat mother of two. My daughter is diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder, among other things. In a world where our expat children are different, she is more so. Unlike my girl, I was born with a neurotypical brain. For the most part, I sense and perceive the world like the average person. I can communicate with ease, and have no problem getting my needs met. I find it easy to connect to other people, and interpret what they mean, even when they express themselves non-verbally. I will never know what it is like to be her.

But I do know what it is like to feel different.

I came to live in the US when I got married, five years ago. I assume that my transition to this country was infinitely smoother than most foreign-born wives. I speak English fluently, I’d previously travelled in the US, I’d been working at the American Embassy, and count several Americans as close friends. I didn’t anticipate any difficulties assimilating into my new life.

Like most people who move to a new country, I first enjoyed an extended honeymoon period. Everything seemed better, faster, easier. The cashier bags your groceries for you? Brilliant! Your request to have food prepared your way is graciously met. You are enthusiastically encouraged to have a great day, without sarcasm. Puzzling, but genuinely endearing too.

Then, after a few weeks, the novelty wears off, homesickness creeps in and culture shock begins. Why can’t I just put my own shopping in bags? I feel like a fool just standing there doing nothing. Can’t people just eat what is on the menu? And I swear, if another person tells me to have a nice day, I will vomit on them. Culture shock and morning sickness both hit me unexpectedly at the same time.

The worst thing though is not knowing the rules that everybody around you just takes for granted. I vividly remember the first time it happened to me. I was at the post office, trying to send a package to my parents. I’d written their address clearly, then put my return address on the back, as we do in England.

The man at the counter refused to send it, and said I needed to do it right. I asked him to clarify, and in an exasperated tone, he told me I needed to write the return address in the left-hand corner. I couldn’t work out why it made a difference moving the address to the side but I did as requested, and sheepishly returned to the counter. This time the guy was unexpectedly furious. It turns out that he meant the front of the package, not the back. He scribbled all over the package, stuck labels on and, alternately condescending and mocking my accent, he pointed to where I needed to write, and threw some forms at me. I didn’t even make it out of the post office before tears of humiliation were streaming down my face.

Hours later, my new husband returned home from work to find me still upset. Not only did I hate the US Postal Service (which, incidentally, is very American of me) but I hated America, and needed to return to the land of good and decent people that were my own. I think he was a little perplexed at his tough cookie wife turning to mushy dough.

Eventually I calmed down, got a lesson in the art of sending packages from my husband, and got my mettle back. He was outraged that the institution was so intolerant of an outsider, and before long I felt that way too. To this day I feel edgy and full of indignation when I enter a post office, though I’ve always been treated well ever since. Probably because I know where to write the damn address now.

There have been other incidents, where I just haven’t understood the protocol in certain situations. These days I explain to people that I’m from another country, and need extra help. Most people are obliging, and it is only on rare occasions that I feel like an alien. The lessons have been extremely useful to me.

When we are trying our best to fit in, and are confused by what is happening, it is often the hardest time to explain that you don’t understand. And if I feel like this, how must my girl feel, day in, day out?

Last week my petrol light came on as I was driving home from another therapy session. I found a gas (petrol) station, and began pumping. A man who worked there came running up and asked me if I needed help.

I was puzzled, but assured him I could manage. Then he started cleaning my windshield, which I wasn’t expecting either. Next he asked if I needed my tyre pressure checked. I told him I didn’t, but by this time I was very uncomfortable.

I never know when I should tip somebody, so always leave that to my husband. I worried that he would be offended if I didn’t give him something, or insulted that I would try. Then I panicked as I realized I had no cash on me anyway. Luckily another driver came up to him, and I made a quick getaway.

Later I told my husband how I think I’ll always have culture shock until I learn all the rules pertaining to life in America. Learning those rules is particularly hard when we move so frequently, and parenting special needs children can be isolating.

He patiently listened, and nodded, then suggested I look around next time at the gas station that I don’t accidentally pull into the “Full Service” pump.

It isn’t always about being different. Being in our own world, and not paying attention might be something else my girl and I have in common.